


Emily Post Never Mentioned This!

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [27]
Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Mild intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 00:52:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Now that Peter had healed enough to start questioning the fate of his fellow team members, the ladies of Haven thought the end of the healing might be in sight.  Well, perhaps not quite.  When Peter's uncertain disposition leads to yet another angry outburst, their anxiety rises.  Still, no one ever imagined he'd do something quite that stupid, that irresponsible act that would send Caeide into a rage, and later made him think to himself, "Emily Post Never Mentioned This!"





	Emily Post Never Mentioned This!

**Author's Note:**

> Again, some mild intimacy toward the end. I do sometimes question about still posting warnings about such, but I know there are some who are offended quite easily.

They'd known the journey would not be a quick or easy one; they were still taken by surprise by each new turn in the road. As Peter got stronger, after the illness passed, they'd thought it would good that he could get outside in the fresh air, start to move around more. First, he'd sit in one of the comfortable chairs on the porch, a small table beside him for his deck of cards, maybe a book, where through the open kitchen door he could talk to Maudie, if he liked, and where she could keep an eye on him. She'd bring him tea, check to see if he was needing anything, if only some company, could urge him back in for a bit of a nap when she thought he was getting weary. From there, he could see much of the doings of Haven, Marisol tending the poultry or working in the garden, Caeide up at the far fields, or on the long path that ran past all the large stock enclosures, up to the orchards, or down to the right, where the horse stables were. He could see the horses in their pasture beyond, and wondered what it'd be like to ride one of the big beasts; he'd not done so before, and he wasn't at all sure it would be a pleasant experience. The huge hound, Estelle, sat with him sometimes, coming to lay her giant head on his knee and look up at him with those ever so intelligent eyes.

{"If she could just speak French, it'd be a little like 'aving Louie 'ere; about the same size, same knowing big brown eyes."} he thought. Coo, he missed them! He had no idea of where Louie was; he figured the others had gone back to their home towns in the States, but with the mess France was in, who knows what his little mate had found when he got off the transport. It was only now, that his mind was clearer and his body stronger, that they came to his thoughts, and he felt ashamed of that fact.

He worried about Kinch, who'd gotten more accustomed to being treated as an equal, a member of the team; he knew from their many late night conversations that he'd likely not find that at home; well, that was obvious, now wasn't it, with Kinch not even allowed in the same truck as Carter, after all those long years together.

He was particularly worried about Carter; the youngest of them all, Carter was as brave as they came, but somewhat hapless, an odd combination of remarkable wisdom and incredible naivete. He'd taken it on himself to be Carter's special guardian, back in the camp, and it bothered him more than he'd like to admit that he didn't know what the younger man was doing, how he was doing. Hell, he didn't even know whether Andrew, as well as the others, had safely made it home, though he thought he remembered Caeide telling him something about that. He couldn't quite get his mind around the reality that Carter wasn't his responsibility any more; his head, his heart, just didn't accept that, no matter how hard he tried to reason with both.

He wasn't so worried about Hogan; the Gov always seemed to land on his feet, he'd had a personal escort to London, he had powerful friends. Still, it'd be good to hear where he was, what they had him doing now. He didn't blame Hogan for the foul-up with the transfer; he knew what Hogan had asked, what he'd been promised. {"Well, that's London all over, ain't it, promising and then just waving the promises aside. Don't know why we thought this time'd be any different."}

He knew what he'd always known, deep inside - London, HQ, they valued Hogan, him being an officer and all, but the others, not so much, though they'd seemed to have, back in the early days. {"You'd 'ave thought it more the other way around; maybe not in the early days when they couldn't be sure of us, but as the years went on, after all we risked, after the cost . . ."} and his mind went back, unwillingly, moving over all the costs, not just the injuries, but the isolation, the loneliness, the damned cold and rain and mud, all the indignities, all of what they'd seen, all of what they'd had to do.

He looked down at his hands, scarred now, especially the right one, thickened skin, aching joints replacing the suppleness he remembered from the London days. He'd been lucky, he knew, that the war had ended when it had; time was coming when he'd not have been of much use to the team as far as those 'magic fingers' were concerned, though he'd other skills aplenty, he knew. Tears filled his eyes now, remembering those he'd seen killed, those he'd helped bury, those he'd been unable to save.

Caeide was at the edge of the porch now, starting to come up the wide steps; she looked at him, aching for him, hopeful that his being outside this long was a good sign; usually he was back inside resting by the time she returned from the stock barns. He heard her step, blinking his eyes rapidly, and asked, "back already, then?" his head turned to look at the barns and fields to give himself time to become better composed.

"Yes, things were in good order, just the usual, no problems today," she smiled at him, "but it's more than ready I am for some tea and maybe a slice of that good bread Maudie made earlier. Once I get the smell of sheep off me," she laughed. "What about you?"

"Sounds good, I'll move in when you get back down," he said. He moved slow, uncertain of his footing yet, and preferred to have no one watching when he did. {"At least I don't 'ave to 'ave one or more of them latched onto me anymore, making sure I don't take a tumble. Well, at least as long as I've sense enough to not let meself get too worn out before I try to move around. Bad as it is to 'ave to 'ave their 'elp getting from one place to another, that's nothing as bad as 'aving to 'ave their 'elp getting meself up off the floor!"} That had happened more than once, and he despised himself for being that weak. He hated being helpless, always had, and it made his temper flare. They'd taken the rough side of his tongue often enough, and were leary of it, though they'd only take so much and then one of them would lay into him right smart. Supportive they were, doormats they were not.

He got up slowly, making sure he had his balance, and made his way in to sit at the broad kitchen table. Maude was gone now, perhaps in the stillroom or in the brewery; those, along with the kitchen, were her own special areas. A fresh pot of tea was on the table, a loaf of bread in its usual basket, covered by a linen cloth, tub of fresh butter, jar of their own jam, saucers, cups, all to the ready; Maude knew their routine, and made it easy on them as she could. He thought about pulling out a cigarette, but it seemed like more effort than he wanted to spare right then.

Caeide came in through the door, fresh clothes, face pink from scrubbing, hair freshly tidied. "Oh, that does look tempting," as she took her place at the spot adjacent to him; she knew he felt he was being starred at, evaluated, even when that wasn't the case, and seated this way, he felt more comfortable.

"Caeide, is there any way to find out about the others? Andrew, Kinch, Louie, the Gov? I know Louie might be hardest, but maybe the others?" he asked quietly. She breathed a sigh of relief; she'd been most concerned that he hadn't brought this up before, but between them, they'd decided it was just that he wasn't at that stage of healing yet. Though she'd been close to pushing the issue should he not soon make the effort himself; it wasn't good to let the matter go too long.

"Of course. And I've done a bit of that, just so's I'd have something to tell you when you were ready." He looked up at her, eyes wide, then he flushed with shame that he'd not asked before. "Laddie, you had to get the illness more out of your body before your mind would LET you think of them. You were worn down to the nubbin, you were; there wasn't energy enough to deal with any more than trying to survive; there's no shame in that!" He wasn't sure of that, but he let it go.

"What have you found?" with a determined voice.

"Wait here, I'll take a run to the office and be right back," she smiled and nodded. He decided a cigarette was now a necessity, and lit one, taking a deep drag and holding it in, then letting the smoke ease out slowly. He'd thought it would be days, maybe weeks before he'd get any information; seemingly that wouldn't be the case, though she did say she'd done 'a bit of that', so just how much news there'd be was questionable. He felt his impatience grow, {"the office is just up the stairs; why's it taking her so long!?"} He'd been prepared to wait for days, maybe weeks; why was it so hard to wait another few minutes? He shook his head at his own foolishness.

She came back in at a trot, as if she'd sensed his impatience, and settled back down, a slim folder in her hand.

"Hogan is in Washington, he got his first star, just as they promised he would; he was on a tour round the country when I made the inquiries, promoting the re-building effort, and not being in too much charity with such work, it appears, though he's being much made over. I've a couple of clippings in here, from newspapers; not much, but thought you'd like to see."

She firmly resolved to keep her tone cheerful and neutral; her feelings toward Hogan were complicated to say the least. She appreciated his efforts in keeping Peter and the others alive, in giving them a purpose; she resented the danger he put them in, especially when there had been simpler ways to accomplish the same goals, but when his own ego just couldn't let the opportunity for 'monkey business' pass by; she was glad he'd been there for Peter, giving him the respect, affection, and yes, love when those had been in slim supply; she was beyond angry at how he'd eventually misused, abused that love; she was angry that he hadn't seen to the care and protection of his whole command crew at war's end; she was totally bewildered at how the new general could be off on a tour when his men were still in need, when Peter was in need. Hogan knew how to reach her; he had to have considered that she might know where Peter was, when he dropped out of sight! She was resentful, that Hogan's dislike of her was more important to him than his concern for Peter. With what Peter felt for the blasted man, what they supposedly meant to each other, at least for a time, NOTHING should have been more important than that concern, to her way of thinking.

Peter pulled the clippings toward him, {"Yes, that's the Gov, alright, smiling that wicked smile, pretty women 'anging off 'is arms, admiring crowds all around 'im"} and he smiled. {"Well, 'e deserves it, now don't 'e; not many'd been able to accomplish what 'e did, turning us lot into a force to be doing all the things we did."} His loyalty, respect, and memories of love for the man kept him from comparing his reception in London with the reception being given his former commanding officer. That touch of uneasiness the pictures brought, he dismissed, didn't want to think on. His memories of the camp were foggy in spots, and his attempts to force through that fog made him more uncomfortable than he could account for.

"What about the others?" he asked.

"Kinch made it back home safely to Detroit; he's working with the telephone company again. Here is his address. Truly seems a waste; he's capable of so much more, but seemingly there's little opportunity there for him, and not as much of a welcome as he deserves; no ticker tape parades for the black units.

I don't understand that, Peter, never have; a country can draft any man they want, the men can do the same jobs as everyone else, and yet, the treatment, the respect, that varies so," she said with a frown, thinking not just of Kinch, being black, but also Peter, who'd have been in for a 'blue discharge' if his wider taste in bedmates had been known. In Hogan, it'd have been swept under the rug, even if they'd known of his relationship with Peter, (or considered it a 'one off' due to being deprived of women, though Hogan had been rather less deprived of female companionship than any of the others), but not in Peter, and she thought to herself, not in young Andrew either, if her intuition was correct. {"Of course," she thought most bitterly, "they'd been willing to let them serve and die first, most likely, before discarding them."}

"LeBeau is working with the remnants of the Free French, now working to rebuild their country. The job will take years, Peter, much of the countryside was devastated; the cities either destroyed, or if they survived, riddled with the remains of the Vichy who sought to do final damage after the surrender. I haven't been able to locate him enough to reach out to him, not yet, though I'm still trying, and Cally says she thinks she may have found a lead, but I've found out enough to know he is still alive and active."

"And Andrew?" he asked, eyes downcast, taking another long drag of his cigarette, to the end now, stubbing out the remains in the ashtray kept ever ready.

She paused for a time, "I'm worried about him, Peter." His eyes jerked up to meet hers, concern evident. "He got back to the news that his mother had passed, as well as that cousin he was always telling you about," and he interrupted, "But we'd no word of that!".

"Yes, well supposedly he was to have been notified, but you know how the mails were those last few months. I do wonder, though, seemingly the family that he has left, well, I don't know that I'd trust them farther than I could throw them. The ones he'd spoken so fondly of, they're all gone now, it seems. He's his old job back at the drugstore, but is living in a rented flat; seems the family home was sold by his cousins in order to pay his mother's expenses. I'd like to look into that, if you don't think it'd be out of line. The person I had checking on him says what they hear, what they see, he's not held in any regard at all, considered a bit simple even," she said with a deep frown.

Peter looked at her in shocked disbelief, "Andrew? 'E's plenty smart! 'e's a bit naive in some ways, though perhaps not so much as 'e lets on," thinking of the few times he'd placed mistaken trust in that naivete, only to be brought about most thoroughly by that special gleam of mischief in the younger man's eyes, "but in others, 'e's a ruddy genius! 'e's brave too; can't tell the number of times 'e pulled off some impersonation right under Jerry's nose, nor the number of times 'e pulled our arses outta the fire!"

"I know, Peter, but seems that's not how he's regarded at home. That's what concerns me; it seemed to me that Andrew really came into himself, really shone, when all of you showed you had confidence in him, depended on him, no matter how you teased him sometimes. He doesn't have that now; I can't think that'd do him any good. His address is in the file as well." Neither of them had spoken about the caring, the love that had grown between the two; so much of that had been realized through that strange traveling they'd done, and she'd still had no indication that he remembered that, but he HAD to have remembered the closeness. Perhaps that too was something that would return to his conscious memory in time; maybe, she thought, it was a matter of him LETTING himself remember. She knew this wasn't something she could push too much, though she hoped she could ease him in that direction. What they had, those emotions, that was too rich to give up so easily.

"You've put quite a bit of effort into this, lass," he said gratefully, looking at her with just a bit of a smile.

"I knew you'd want to know, and truthfully, well, so did I. I liked your friends, and young Andrew, he was kind to me, you know; I became very fond of him." She frowned again, "Peter, when you reach out to them," for she knew he would, "if you'd like to invite them here for a visit, to get a better feel for how they're doing, especially young Andrew, I'd be pleased to welcome them. The Clan can help with transportation, you know, and we've more than enough room."

His eyes grew distant and cloudy, "I'll think on it. For now, I'll write, see what I can find out. How much can I say, I mean, about 'ere?"

"As much as you like, as long as you don't give a specific location. The name of the farm, of course, that you're in Wales, certainly, but perhaps not too much more specific than that as to location, at least at first. Use the pass-through address for them to write to you," she said quietly.

There was still the issue of Peter having just disappeared from London, his final debriefing and discharge never having taken place; she thought that maybe the RAF would give en absentia discharges to those they'd lost track of; heaven knows he couldn't have been the only one! Still, she was being extra cautious for now.

She'd hoped his having news of his friends might help, and perhaps it did, for he had letters ready to go in the next outward bound correspondence pouch. However, his mood took another downward turn, and he again became morose and uncommunicative. He was moving better, able to make short treks now, and learning to drive the cart and horse, though he'd disclaimed any interest in the riding horses for now. Well, he was probably right about that; she didn't know that he was strong enough to manage the lifting, balancing plus trying to control even the sweetest tempered of them, with no experience at all; they seemed to know when they had the advantage, and they did take it, she knew. They had experienced that when teaching Maude and Marisol to ride.

Still, he could walk to the closer buildings and back in some comfort, and he'd come to the far barns and fields in the cart, and even gotten her to show him the old homestead. He'd shaken his head at the old thatched building, not so small as some, but still only three rooms, fireplace in the main room only, no windows as such, and wondered at them, Agnera and Kathleen, the older women, and the young Maeve, and sometimes, oftimes, the young Caeide lived in harmony and comfort there. Still, the place held a fascination for him, especially in his more down times, enough to worry the women somewhat. It was enough off the track that if he got up there and did something foolish or got himself hurt, it would be awhile before anyone would know or could reach him. The black dog, the depression, was something he'd always suffered from; he'd fought it more or less successfully for many years, but this up and down, topsy turvey mindset of his, they watched over him more carefully than they might have otherwise.

It wasn't at the old homestead, however, that things came to a boil, but at the hay barn. He'd been in a foul frame of mind since that morning, when he'd told Caeide to give him the key to the gun cabinet above stairs, that he wanted one of the pistols. Told, mind you, not asked, which wasn't like him.

The three women glanced at each other, and then Caeide had said, flat out, "once you've been checked out on the range".

Of course, he erupted, "and why not now? You carry one, Marisol 'as one in under 'er apron; I know, I've seen it. Likely as not, Maudie 'as one as well; she bloody well 'ad one back at the pub. Carried a bleeding gun more times than any of you can imagine and didn't manage to shoot my foot off, you know! Even allowed young Andrew to carry, and a more clumsy git I've never seen!" He continued on in that vein, while Caeide and the others calmly let him talk himself out.

Maude spoke up, "no, I don't carry one, cept in emergencies. She tried me on the range and I've not the vision anymore. I carry a pencil sharpener, like you always did. Marisol carries a small pistol now, but wasn't given one til Caeide ran her through the tests. Yes, it can be dangerous around here, and a gun can be handy like; but they can be dangerous to whoever is carrying it, as well, with all the cliffs, dropoffs, and such, and working around the stock with a gun can have its own problems. Fire it off without thought, and we'll have sheep halfway to Scotland, most like, or over the cliffs into the sea! Let her do her job, laddie, go down to the range with her," she urged him.

He looked around at them, slammed his coffee cup down on the table and headed upstairs. They winced as they heard a door slam upstairs, loud enough to clatter the pictures on the wall. Maude looked down at the puddle of spilt coffee, considering, then up again, "I don't like the idea of him with a gun, not while he still gets those moods, but what's to do? We can't coddle him to the point of him doing something silly because of feeling hemmed in."

Caeide looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to see through to the room, to the man, above them. "I'm hoping to get letters back in a hurry from his friends; that may help somewhat. But, when he asks, I'll take him to the range and give him the usual. He's right, you know, he's more experience with the weapons than most, and I can't deny him without hurting his pride even more." She paused, then with sad eyes, "and there's only so far we can protect him, you know. I can think of a hundred ways, even more, he could do himself harm, and if he's that determined, there's nothing we could do to stop him. And besides, he's Peter; if he really wants in that gun cabinet, he'll get in, remember!" They all ached for this proud, stubborn, tormented man, each carrying a deep seated fear that this sanctuary, their care and concern, just wouldn't be enough to help him through this troubled time.

He hadn't intended to do anything quite so foolish, he thought to himself later. Just get back at her somewhat for being so stubborn about the gun; show her she couldn't always be determining his actions, she and the others.

He'd followed her up to the hay barn when she went to load the cart later that afternoon; he'd been there before, knew the layout, wide closed metal bins filled with grain back against the walls below the lofts, more hay in big rolls, not bales, stored here and there below, the encircling lofts filled almost totally with baled hay at this time of year, though by the time winter was over, she'd told him, they'd be mostly empty again. Two wide ladders leading up, one to each side, wide openings with sliding doors both above and below.

She was inside, filling buckets from the grain bins, having already pulled the ties from two big rolls of hay at one side of the big open area in the center, forcing them open into a big pile so she could fork what she wanted up into the cart before she left. She saw him out of the corner of her eye as he came through the main entrance, but he didn't speak and she let him wander around without breaking the silence.

She actually, well she didn't forget he was there, she never did when he was about, she was too conscious of the blessing of his presence here at Haven, but she'd lost track of exactly where, when she heard the scuffly sound from above. She frowned, backed into the center to get a better view of the lofts, and her insides chilled. Blast the man! He was walking atop the bales, jumping down from the taller stacks to land on the shorter stacks, heaving himself back up onto another tall stack. They were stacked reasonably stable, she knew, she'd stacked them herself, but hay was slippery, more than you'd think if you weren't used to working with it, which he wasn't, and he still got unsteady at times.

"Peter, those can get slippery, you know. Take a care," she called up to him, sighing to herself as she earned herself a dirty look.

{"For all the world like I'm a toddler!"} he thought.

{"Acting for all the world like a rebellious child!"} she thought.

Then he thought of something that'd teach her what was what. He hopped down from the stack he'd been standing on and landed on the two foot wide space along the edge. She jumped at the sound and sight! He moved even farther toward the edge. {"Let's see how she likes this!"} he smirked to himself, leaning over to start a casual discussion with her, just to watch her face as he balanced on the edge. He made sure to turn so she could see the pistol he had tucked into the front of his waistband, having picked the lock on the gun cabinet during his soujourn upstairs, his fingers actually cooperating for once.

"Just 'ow many bales do you put up each year?" not caring at all what the answer might be, just getting a rise out of her from the way he was standing on the edge. "And why bales up 'ere, rolls down there?"

She took a deep breath, trying to keep calm, keep her voice steady. "As much as we can grow and have room for; what we don't use, others can. Rolls down here are the last of the harvest, too much irregular material to bale easily. Bales are easier to store, to winch up into the loft; couldn't do that with rolls. Peter, that edge is slippery from the hay, PLEASE be careful!" Yes, she'd seen the pistol; no, she wasn't going to mention it right at this moment.

He just stared down at her. "It is a fair way down, now isn't it. If I fell from 'ere, do ya think I'd break me neck, or only me arm or leg, now?" He tilted his head to one side, frowned, consideringly, as if thinking it over, all the while watching her face out of the corner of his eye. {"Yes, that's got her going, all right! Looks like she doesn't know whether to yell, scold, or start throwing things, for all she's tryin' to keep a calm face!"} he thought gleefully.

"Any of those are quite likely; you'd regret that, I'm thinking! More time abed with us to fuss over you, you know how you hate that," trying desperately to keep calm.

He was keeping from grinning down at her with some difficulty, {"let 'er go back up to the 'ouse and tell the other mother 'ens THIS story; maybe they'll think twice about trying to decide for me how capable I am of taking care of meself!"} he was thinking, quite pleased with himself, when he took one final step, felt himself slipping, lost his footing, then pitched over the edge.

His one thought, on the short, yet seemingly endless trip down was, {"Oh, Caeide lass, forgive me! I truly didn't intend this!"} Well, there was one other thought, that doing this with a loaded pistol tucked into the front of his trousers wasn't probably the best idea he'd ever had!

He felt himself twisting, and by sheer luck, landed on the deep pile of loose hay she'd forked over just a bit earlier; also by sheer luck, he didn't land on the pitchfork stuck in the hay. The fact that the gun didn't go off was past luck, he just considered that a bloody miracle!

He did manage to totally knock the wind out of himself, landing on his back, and most definitely seeing stars. He couldn't move, but could feel her touching him, feeling of him for broken bones, saying his name over and over. Finally, with one deep very painful gasp, his breath came back, he sat up, he opened his eyes to see her horrified face in front of him. He collapsed back onto the hay and then, shocking the both of them, started laughing, laughing like he hadn't in a very long time, perhaps since the last totally ridiculous prank Andrew had pulled. {"Coo, what a rush! Haven't felt anything like that in months! Adrenaline, nothing like it!"}

She moved back from him, her face white with shock and reaction. "You bloody idiot! You could have gotten yourself killed, do you not realize that?!" She'd snatched the gun away, unloading it, tossing it aside uncaring where it landed. She was screaming at him, furious, as angry as she could ever remember having been at someone she loved. He was still laughing, sitting up again now, brushing the hay from his hair and clothes when, to his shock, her shock, she hit him in the chest with both fisted hands. She was crying now, hysterically, and she hit him again, and again, til he caught her hands in his.

"Caeide, lass, calm down! I'm alright, no 'arm done! Feel bloody marvelous, to tell the truth; 'aven't 'ad that much fun in ages!" If that was intended to calm her down, it was spectacularly unsuccessful. She was now raging, totally out of control, and he grabbed her to shake her, hard, starting to worry a bit about her now. Well, worry about her for now, just as concerned about himself, later, when she came after him for this bit of stupidity, as he was sure she would do. Her temper rarely showed itself, but when it did, it was a true force of nature.

She was pulling away from him; he softened his grip, intending to let her go, frowning down at her, then he froze and his eyes widened. He swallowed deeply, and almost without thinking, certainly without planning, pulled her tightly into him, bent his head and took possession of her lips, her mouth, like he was starving.

She started to struggle, but then she realized that wasn't really what she wanted to do. {"Adrenaline!"} Well, she was feeling the effects of some of that herself! She kissed him hard in return, arms around his back pulling him toward her even more tightly, feeling his hand pushing up under the front of the shirt she was wearing, gripping her firmly. As he felt her respond, he groaned and pulled them both down into the hay, him rolling half on top of her. He could feel himself pulsing, hard and ready, and he moved against her rhythmically, urgently. As she moaned into his mouth, he reached down to grab her loose skirts and hike them up well above her knees, reaching under to pull away her drawers totally, tossing them down beside the hay stack. With another movement, he'd freed himself, and was pushing into her hot wetness, twisting so he was now totally atop her. Thinking was long past, for both of them, now it was only the heat, the movement, the building tension, both fighting for breath, but not wanting to lose the other's lips long enough to really breathe deeply. They surged together, without stopping til she gave a sharp cry and arched into him, then he did the same, feeling almost dizzy from the release. He collapsed back down on her, then rolled the both of them to the side, while they fought to regain their breath. 

They looked at each other; they looked away from each other; they tried looking at the hay, the roof of the barn, anywhere BUT at each other. Then, finally, she snickered, he did the same, and they were laughing as they clung to each other. She eased herself back just a bit, he wriggled to slide free of her and her skirts, and reached down to tuck himself safely away again.

{"Wonder w'at old Emily Post would say to this? Proper topics of conversation after y've fallen arse over teakettle outta a 'ayloft with a loaded gun in your pants, and then thoroughly tupped the lady of the 'ouse on the barn floor. Don't know that I've ever seen that exact topic in that book me Mavis 'ad."}

"Still mad at me, lass?" he asked with that particularly winsome smile he used for getting around trouble; heaven knows he'd had years of practice at it! He'd forgotten The Brat had never been overly susceptible to that one, though there were others she seemed to welcome.

"I don't know yet. I'm figuring up all the reasons I have TO be mad at you, and checking the list to see which ones still apply," she quipped back at him. Looking up at him sharply, she remembered one or two things she might still be a touch angry about.

"It takes falling out of a loft to interest you, to get you excited?! Is that it? Was the loaded pistol just to add a bit of spice?! Well," her voice starting to rise a bit, "we've all manner of such things around here that should do the trick for you then! There are sharks in the waters off the cliffs, you know, exciting swimming companions, I'd imagine. Not to mention the cliffs themselves; bloody marvelous things to take a tumble off, probably. There's the caves up in the hills to get lost in, them complete with caverns no one has measured the depths of. Adders, if you go poking about in the rocks, scorpions belike. That wild ram that takes on all comers up in the hills, and that stallion old Myers owns that likes to trample everyone who tries to put a leg across him. And we still have a wild boar that I've seen the tracks of. Which do you fancy, next?! Or do you just want to try the loft again?! Maybe this time you'll land on the pitchfork, or on the bare floor! Maybe break your stubborn, prideful, neck!?"

She was all but shouting again, now. He grinned widely, putting his hands on her shoulders, holding her back so he could look down into her furious face.

"Or I could just piss you off again; seems that does the trick just as well!"

She looked up at him, searching his face, his eyes, then with a deep groan, shoving at him til he fell back into the hay, staring down at him, that knowing smirk on his face, her falling flat over him, and kissed him as if to devour him, pausing only to say in a breathless voice, "or you could just do that!"

It turned out that pissing her off really DID do the trick, second time around as well if not better than the first. Peter figured, once he could think again, that if it was danger he was looking for, he might as well forget all those other things she'd mentioned; seems he had all the danger he could handle right here in his own two hands. 

They brushed each other off, as well as they could, she tucked her hair back in place, retrieved and replaced her undergarments, the gun and clip, he made sure he was all back in place and fastened up, and they loaded up the cart and headed back to the house. He had winced when getting on the seat of the cart, feeling bruises and pulled muscles he hadn't felt before, wondering if they were from the fall or from afterwards.

"Are you going ta tell the others about this?" he asked, looking over at her.

"If I do, you'll have to find some way to get them around from yelling at you, and, I warn you, with Maude and Marisol, I doubt you can use the same technique you used on me!" she replied, trying very hard not to grin at the appalled look on his face. He recovered his composure quickly, however.

"No, I doubt they'll be quite so easy to get around," he snarked, then ducked the backhanded swat he didn't see coming, but knew was on its way.


End file.
